


Noise to Signal

by tsuristyle



Category: SMAP
Genre: Gen, Telepathy, our heroes awaken, through baldness, totalitarian dystopia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 03:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9104920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsuristyle/pseuds/tsuristyle
Summary: He gestures to the camera standing behind him, and Nakai knows they are going to die. He's seen this too many times, on too many televisions. This is the end.(An origin story for the 27hr TV Televimen. Written July 2014.)





	

Black walls, black floor, black clothes, black bruises on their arms and faces as the five of them are shoved to their knees. The color of despair, Nakai thinks, or maybe of nothing at all. He lifts his head, pushing back the static threatening to creep in.  
  
The leader stands over them, smiling compassionately. "Traitors of the state. Have you learned your lesson?" He reaches down to brush his fingers over a forehead. "You should at least try understand the wrongness of your crimes, you know. It will make it much easier to accept your punishment."  
  
He gestures to the camera standing behind him, and Nakai knows they are going to die. He's seen this too many times, on too many televisions. This is the end.  
  
The leader steps toward the one on the end, smoothing tangled hair out of the man's face. "Kimura, was it? Do you have any words for your country?"  
  
Kimura raises his head slowly, face twisted not in remorse but anger. " _My_ country," he spits hoarsely, "doesn't _murder_ its people."  
  
The leader's smile vanishes abruptly. He grabs a fistful of hair and yanks the man's head back. "Think you're a hero, do you? You disgrace your country with your vanity." He shoves Kimura away from him in disgust, turning with a wave of his hand. "Shave him. All of them. They will know shame before they know death."  
  
The camera watches coldly, fistfuls of ragged hair falling to the smudged floor. Nakai stares at the lens, the static creeping louder. It sounds like a million voices now, babbling together in insanity.  
  
 _\--anger--_  
  
The man next to him blinks, glancing around, but Nakai can't look away from the lens. A million people watching, a million voices unspoken--  
  
"Look at yourselves. What ridiculous _heroes_ you make now."  
  
\--and only growing clearer, filling his too-light head from all directions _feardespairgriefoutragesadnesshatredpainhope--_  
  
Hope?  
  
Nakai turns his head, catching the others' eyes. They can hear it, too.  
  
 _\--hopecouragelovefightfightfight--_  
  
"Enough, then. Guards, execute them."  
  
A hand grabs Nakai's chin, forcing it back-- and then he's shoving backward into the guard's knees and knocking him to the floor and twisting the knife out of his hand. The guard tries to pull him down, but he slashes blindly at the man's leg and jumps to his feet. The prisoner next to him is caught in a headlock; Nakai throws himself at the guard, stabbing the man's shoulder. He can't pull the knife free, so he grabs the prisoner's hand instead, dragging him away.  
  
Across the room, Kimura stands over two unconscious guards, brandishing his own stolen knife to keep the last one at bay. The other two prisoners help each other up, edging backwards towards the door.  
  
"Traitors!" The leader roars, shoving the camera down with a shattering crash and advancing on Kimura. "The state will make you pay for this!"  
  
Nakai pushes the others through the door, glancing back. "Kimura!"  
  
Kimura's gaze wavers between the guard and the approaching leader, and the guard lunges forward-- Kimura's arm snaps out-- and they both tumble to the floor, the blade buried deep in the guard's chest. Kimura twists out from under him and dashes for the door.  
  
"Murderer! No country will take you now!"  
  
Nakai grabs Kimura's arm and they run, towards the way out, towards freedom.  
  
  
They slump against brick, hidden from sight behind a dumpster in a rundown trash alley. Kimura crouches by one rusted corner, peering around to keep watch.  
  
The prisoner Nakai helped slides down the wall to the pavement, rubbing at his head. The shave is rushed and badly done; uneven chunks of hair stick out here and there. "I'm hideous," he murmurs dazedly, and then drags both hands over his face, breaths suddenly sharp. "What-- what do I do now--"  
  
"Hey." Nakai squats next to him, reaching for his shoulder. "I'm Nakai."  
  
The other two crouch by the man's other side. "I'm Shingo," the taller one volunteers, glancing sideways. The shorter one smiles slightly. "Tsuyoshi."  
  
The man between them brushes his hands across his eyes. "Goro," he says quietly, not lifting his head.  
  
Nakai glances at Kimura. The static has faded to a dull whisper, but he can still sense anger. Or is it regret? Rain begins to fall, drops of gray splattering at their feet.  
  
"What now?" Shingo runs his fingertips over the top of his head curiously. "Are we some kind of telepaths now? I can't hear anything anymore."  
  
"I think it was the camera," Tsuyoshi muses. "We could hear the people watching."  
  
Goro draws his knees up, hugging them. "They would've watched us die."  
  
"They told us to fight." Nakai stands as the rain comes down faster. "So we'll fight."  
  
Kimura laughs, a sharp exhalation of air. "For what?" He leans against the dumpster, feet sliding out from under him. "We have nothing left."  
  
They stare at the rain-soaked pavement silently. Families, lovers, friends-- all they have left is themselves, dressed in the color of nothing. Kimura rests a hand on his thigh, drops spilling into his open palm. "I killed a man," he says hoarsely. "What can a murderer fight for?"  
  
Nakai crosses the space between them and grabs Kimura's collar. "For _hope_ ," he says, looking into the man's face. "You heard it just as I did. There are still people with hope out there. We're going to wake them up."  
  
Kimura stares up at him, searching his eyes with a lost expression. Then he closes his hand, fingers curling with new strength. "With what?"  
  
Nakai straightens, taking in his four fellow escapees. They're exhausted and bedraggled, but they're alive, and that, in itself, is cause to keep going. "With the weapon we were given."  
  
  
A row of TVs in a window, broadcasting the militant propaganda of the state. Footsteps pass by in the rain, sometimes pausing, sometimes hurrying past.  
  
A flicker. Lines of static, stabbing through the talking heads. Then:  
  
 _"Love? Hatred? Fear? Anger?"_ A man, dressed in black, head shaven smooth and clean. _"Will you choose to fight?"_  
  
Footsteps pausing, voices murmuring.  
  
 _"You have the weapons you need. Choose wisely."_  
  
Another flicker. The image is fading, but the man smiles grimly through the static. It has only just begun.  
  
 _"What's your weapon?"_


End file.
